To Err His Share
by TakenHawkeye
Summary: A deep look into the mind of Father Mulcahy, through a conversation between the Father and Hawkeye. Will review all who review me.


It was true I had indulged in my own fair share of alcohol that evening. With all probability, more than my fair share. I would say the alcoholic content in my blood made it easier to accept what was being said to me, made it easier to help a man in need. Looking back, I suppose the whole exchange occurred rather quickly, and was hardly of incident -- yet, for some reason, it was.

It was a fairly regular night, and after a few grueling hours in OR, a game of poker was quickly thrown together in the Supply tent. The usuals had all arrived; BJ, Radar, Colonel Potter, Klinger, Father Mulcahy, and myself, and two of Potter's best bottles of scotch were passed around. A makeshift celebration for the birth of Radar's puppies back in Iowa.

After an operation we all thought would fail miraculously pulled through, and after I realized my last pair of socks were stained a permanent red from the blood I had spent an ungodly amount of hours in, any reason to celebrate was a good one.

Having lost two hands, BJ folded and decided to head back for the Swamp before he lost his dignity in the next pot. Shortly after that, Father Mulcahy won an even twenty dollars and excused himself, claiming it was best to stop while ahead. It was probably for the best, seeing as the camp chaplain was already becoming slightly tipsy from the effect of the alcohol. Hardly twenty minutes after that (and one good bottle already spent) Colonel Potter stood up and announced he felt his time could be better spent sleeping. We remaining three waved him off, and as Klinger and I put away the better part of the second bottle, Radar swept our pockets clean. Radar made the mistake of glancing at his watch, and, startled by the hour, alerted us two of how late (or, rather, early) it was becoming.

After saying the standard goodnights, I made my way, stumbling in my inebriated state, back to the Swamp, passing Father Mulcahy's tent on the way.

I was startled to see that the man, who had left the poker game a good two hours before, was still awake, his light shockingly bright after the dimness of the Supply tent. While I glanced back down at my watch, to make sure it was as late as I thought it was, my own two feet managed to get in the way of each other, and I felt myself tumbling to the ground. I gave a startled yell as I hit the gravel, and hissed in pain as a rock cut up not only my best pair of pants but my knee as well. As I lay on the ground, struggling to pick myself up, the door to Father Mulcahy's tent swung open, revealing a startled priest to me.

"Hawkeye!" He hurried over to lend me a hand, pulling me to my feet. "Are you all right?"

I gave myself a quick look up and down, and gingerly placed my weight on each ankle. "Quite. Just another night in the life of a future AA member." A glance down to the stinging in my knee revealed a rip in my pants, a small amount of blood quickly spreading from it. "You're up awful late past your bedtime, aren't you Father?"

"Yes, well, I was trying to get in some reading." He paused, following my gaze to my knee. "Oh my, you're hurt."

"'Tis but a scratch, my good man. Nary a worry."

Father Mulcahy ignored me, instead pulling on my arm in the direction of my tent across the compound. "Here, let me lend you a hand. I'd suggest you clean that up, you can never tell what kinds of germs are passing along in this camp. I have a bottle of cleaning alcohol and a box of bandages in my tent, if you'd like."

"I think I have enough alcohol in my system for one night, thank you." I paused. "You're in a hospital, and you keep bandages in your tent."

"A midnight paper cut from the Good Book is hardly uncommon. Now come on."

Normally I would have protested. I was tired and wanted nothing more than to head back to my own bunk and sleep off the fog in my mind. But then, normally I would have been sober. So instead, I waited outside the open door of the Father's tent, while he retrieved the necessities. In record time the man returned, dragging me to the Swamp.

As the Father pulled me through the open door and into my tent, forcing me onto the chair beside the desk, I managed to work out, "And here all this time I thought I was the doctor."

Father Mulcahy just smiled as he searched through a desk drawer for a piece of cloth to pour the alcohol onto. Retrieving it, he set about the task of opening the bottle. I could tell by the way he fumbled, two hours had done nothing to relieve the man of his slightly intoxicated state.

"When I was young," I began, startling both the silence and the Father, "I thought priests were forbidden from drink. Just like they were forbidden from fighting and -- well, other things. Then, here I am in Korea, watching a man of the cloth pour down nearly as much as myself."

"This will sting, I believe." Father Mulcahy gently pushed the soaked cloth to my knee with one hand, reaching for the bandages with another. "Just one of the common misconceptions of priesthood, Hawkeye. As much as people hate to believe it or admit it, a priest is as human as any other man." Muttering as he pulled the cloth from my knee, he added, "Sometimes more so."

I watched for a moment as he carefully applied the bandage. "I never thought of it that way." As the Father began to put away his supplies, I noticed for the first time that BJ, who had claimed to be returning to his cot when he left the poker game, was no where to be seen.

Father Mulcahy stood up. "It's getting late, Hawkeye. We both should have been in bed long ago. Tipsy as we are, I don't believe it could hurt to get some rest."

I nodded.

As Father Mulcahy began to turn back, I couldn't resist and quickly broke in with, "'Sometimes more so'. I sense you have something on your mind, Padre."

Had I not been watching, I am almost sure I would have missed the slight tensing of the Father's shoulders as he stopped dead in his tracks. "Quite perceptive, Hawkeye."

I waited for him to offer more. Instead, the man set down the bottle of alcohol and box of bandages, and lowered himself onto a nearby cot. So I stood and staggered as best as I could to where he sat, plopping down beside him. "Speak to me, Father."

"Hmm?"

"You've got something on your mind. Speak to me."

Slowly, he let out a sigh, lifting a hand up to self-consciously touch his glasses. He turned his head from me, and softly muttered, "Where is a priest to go when he himself is in need?" I stayed silent; positive this man did not want an answer. "A priest is a man too; he is not beyond the common earthly temptations and urges. To err is human, and I am just that. Human. Am I not going to err my own share?"

I remained quiet, nodding when he lifted his head to meet my gaze.

"In seminary school, I was one of a group of four. We were a rather close-knit group, and I remember nights with the four of us sneaking into Jonathan Malloy's dorm. He had a radio, you see, and we would listen to all the greats, while talking about what we'd do once we were ordained. Jonathan wanted to become a Bishop, and planned to become a member of the Vatican. Matthew Calletti was going to take on a position at St. Mary's Center for Orphans. Noah Ventsias thought of perhaps taking on some missionary work, and I had plans for a small congregation of my own, where I could really do some good in the world."

He paused, taking a deep breath.

"Jonathan never was ordained. He dropped out of the service three days after meeting Anne Harris. I hear they have six children, now, and he couldn't be happier. At least, so the Christmas cards say. Matthew was a priest for three years, working with the children at St. Mary's. After the fire, and the memorial services, he just ripped his collar off and declared God to be -- well, perhaps I shouldn't say that. We lost touch shortly after that."

I nod, waiting for him to work through unpleasant memories.

"Noah -- Noah volunteered and was sent over here two months before I was. He ended up in a hospital just outside of Seoul, and wrote me tri-weekly letters about his work. He was helping the soldiers, the locals, doing everything he ever wanted, and he loved it. Noah had this way, you see, of making even hell sound glorious, and next thing I know, I've volunteered and have a week until I'm shipping out."

It was here that Father Mulcahy began to blink excessively. Clearing his throat, he worked to continue on.

"Two days before I was supposed to leave, I received a telegram from Noah's sister. She knew we were close, and still in touch, and thought that I should know that he -- that he had been killed while delivering hospital supplies to the locals. A North Korean guerilla mistook him for a soldier and shot him. Quick and clean, in the back of the head." He coughed. "I arrived over here five days later."

Suddenly, Father Mulcahy sprang to his feet, and scrambled to the door. With one fevered glance back at me, he began to stammer out, "Oh, I don't think -- I'm sorry Hawkeye, I'll leave you to your -- I just be going now I --"

Calmly, before he could flee from the tent, I lifted a hand and caught his arm. "There's no need got you to worry, Father. It's perfectly all right with me, and even encouraged, that occasionally you empty your mind to another. You asked me where a priest could turn to when he needed comfort and advice, and I'm answering. To his dear old buddy, Hawkeye." I glanced down at my ripped pants, blood red socks, and worn thin shoes. "Not the ideal look of a man to place your confidence in, but I assure you, it's all gold inside."

Weakly, he smiled, and let himself be pulled back down to the tent. "I believe you, Hawkeye." Pausing, he glanced into my eyes for a moment, before whispering out, "I'm not sure how much longer I can go on, over here, Hawkeye. I'm afraid to sleep, for all I ever see in my dreams is blood, and death, and -- and Noah. I hear artillery shots ever single moment, and my nerves are so frayed I can hardly be of use to anyone." Unconsciously, Father Mulcahy began to tug at the cross hanging around his neck. "What am I here for, anyway? I'm a vulture to the living, hanging around until a man dies and I can do my duty. It gets so hard, Hawkeye, to tell the story of the prodigal son once again, while outside bombs are exploding only ten feet away. My fear has gotten so overwhelming I can hardly see past it, and I can do nothing to ease the fears of those around me."

He glanced away, chewing at his lip.

"And the worst of it, Hawkeye, is that I fear I'm beginning to loose my faith."

I'll admit, even sober I would have been at a loss for words, unable to find an even remotely flippant response, but with my mind already muddled, I was even more stranded. There was nothing I could do except stare, stunned, and wordlessly move my mouth up and down.

"I've had a man with one leg ask me, Hawkeye, what the Lord could possibly do with a war. A man without a leg, who had just watched a buddy die beside him, and has another murder himself before the Chinese could. I had no answer for him, none." Father Mulcahy began to jab fiercely at his chest, eyes wild. "I am a priest, Hawkeye. What good am I if I cannot help one man, if I myself cannot even find the answer to his question? What good am I if I -- if I find myself as lost as Jonathan, as Matthew as -- as Noah?"

Quickly, he looked away, but not before I saw the shine in his eyes.

"I'm a man of the cloth, I'm supposed to lead the troops, set a moral example. But I find myself faltering and -- who am I to guide the people of this camp when I can't even guide myself?"

Though rather intoxicated, I took the time to carefully piece together my response. This man, this priest before me, was not in a state that he could easily accept one of many off-hand remarks I have earned the reputation of mastering, but instead needed a well thought-out reply.

"Father, it's like you said yourself, you're human just as much as the next --"

"But I shouldn't be!" Frustrated, Father Mulcahy pulled himself to his feet and began to pace around the room. "I took an oath, Hawkeye, a sacred oath not unlike the one you were required to take. Tell me, do you take the words of your Hippocratic oath lightly?"

I hesitated for a moment -- not unsure of my answer, but rather of the reaction it would provoke. "No."

"Do you hold such an oath to be the truth, to be the words you live by?"

"I do." Vaguely, I felt as if I were talking myself into a trap, but found no way around it.

"I swore, all those years ago, to both live by the word of God and preach it. God is, in no small way, my life. To find myself with thoughts of forsaking Him --" Father Mulcahy cut off, shaking from either anger or fear, I could not tell.

"You yourself just said, you are open to err, you --"

"I am a chaplain, Hawkeye, a priest! I shouldn't be --"

"But you are!"

"-- shouldn't be thinking such blasphemous things, thinking I have been forsaken and therefore should do the same, thinking of -- of deserting."

Quickly, my mouth clamped shut, my protests dead on my tongue. "You -- you what?"

"Fear, Hawkeye, fear." He sighed, stopping in his tracks. "The blind leading the blind. That's what it comes down to. I am unfit to be of service to anyone here, and I just -- I can't do it any longer."

I could see the truth in that statement. Representing God in a Godless state-of-war, watching death and destruction without an answer why, would slowly unravel this man until nothing was left. He was frayed to the edges, and teetering on an edge. A rocky faith could easily be wiped out entirely with just one push in either direction.

I cleared my throat. "We're all afraid Father. We've all seen too much, done too much to last much longer."

He ignored this, causing me to stop and try another direction.

"I took an oath, also, Father, the Hippocratic oath. Are you familiar with the particulars?" A small shake of a head was my only response. "I swore to ease the physical suffering of others whenever it was in my power to do so, to help my fellow man whenever I had the ability. Three days after I arrived here, I broke that oath right in two."

Vaguely interested, Father Mulcahy lifted his head. I noticed, for a moment, the pain his eyes held.

"There was a soldier -- Artmann -- that came in here torn up beyond repair. We had several other men not as bad off as him, who we had the chance to save if we started on them soon. Artmann -- his organs were a mess, and we had the equipment to fix him, to patch him up. He would have taken five hours at least to work on, and though he most likely would have survived, he never would have been the same before. There was too much damage, and to simply live, he would have spent the rest of his life hospitalized. The chance he wouldn't have made it past my table was a high one also, but we could have saved him."

I paused, looking for a reaction in Father Mulcahy's face. Blankly, he stared back.

"If I had taken the time to work on him, at least three other men would have died, for no other reason than I was busy with someone else. Three other men who, given the chance, would have recovered as good as new. So I did the only thing I could. I left Artmann. Left him alone with a Nurse and let him die. I broke my oath right into pieces that day."

Father Mulcahy took a moment to recover his senses. "I don't understand what this -- "

"What I'm saying, Father," I gently cut in, "Is that had I let such blatant disregard for the Hippocratic Oath rule over me, I may have lost more than just a few boys after that. Had I become so utterly obsessed with an incident that could not be avoided, I could have easily been swallowed by this -- this police action." He looked confused, for a moment. "We all have a fear, Father, and you cannot be expected to be an exception. Everyday we face death and blood, and to not be effected by such things would leave us as empty shells -- as Frank, if you like." A small grin was my reward for attempted humor.

Father Mulcahy blinked, doubtful. "But with such a fear, how can I help --"

"Father," I was almost rambling at this point, and became uncomfortably aware of the large amount of scotch I had put away earlier that night, "You have done more for this unit than anyone could ever ask of you. Morale is known to increase just by being in your presence, your help in OR cannot be disregarded -- the lives you've saved are countless and priceless -- and you have a persona that keeps us all sane." I grasped around for a way to convince him. "Remember your six-day pass to Tokyo a few months ago? When you returned we were all nearly mad and all eligible for Klinger's Section-eight." A small embellishment on my part -- I figured neither of us would mind. "Within hours you had us all civil again."

Father Mulcahy smiled.

"As for your faith," I shrugged, "There's nothing much I can help you with. As much as I wish I could, Father, this is something you'll have to solve on your own. I don't doubt you'll be fine."

Throughout my ramblings, I noticed the Father had relaxed considerably. By the end, I could see his eyes beginning to dull, and his shoulders sag in exhaustion. I dared to peak a look at Frank's alarm clock. I couldn't help but gasp.

"Hawkeye, I've said it before, I'll say it again. You would have made a wonderful priest." Father Mulcahy grinned, and reached once more for the forgotten bandages and alcohol bottle.

"I'm not Catholic. Do they take Agnostics into the church?"

"There's always an exception to the rule." He paused. "Thank you. I -- I'm not going to lie and tell you that suddenly everything makes sense, and that I suddenly am sure of the world and my faith once more, but I feel --"

I nodded. There was no need for him to continue.

"I should -- in the morning, then, we'll -- thank you."

"Goodnight, Father."

"Hawkeye."

And just like that he was out the door.

It had all occurred, rather quickly, and I almost wasn't sure it had occurred at all. Perhaps, in my state of drunkenness, I had merely imagined the frantic man in my tent, a man with a long road ahead of him. But I knew I had not. He would not have an easy time with the path he was treading, but, I believed, the end result would be well worth it. I had no worries for Father Mulcahy.

Slowly, I climbed onto my cot and allowed sleep to wash over me.


End file.
